


hair's breadth

by impossiblepluto



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Cairo Day 2019, Close Calls, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-01-12 04:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18439460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: All Jack has to do is keep the goons distracted while Mac does his thing. It's never that easy.Cairo Day Five: Close CallsChapter Two added





	1. Chapter 1

Jack spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor.

"Just wait til I write my Yelp review," Jack threatens, his tongue dabs tentatively at the cut on his lip. "I've got a lot of followers. This place is in for a boycott of epic proportions."

A blow to the solar plexus has him nearly doubled over, or would if his arms weren't as tightly restrained. It drives the air from his lungs, his diaphragm spasms. He fights against the panicky feeling of being unable to draw a breath. Short, quick gasps that don't seem to even reach his lungs.

"I find you amusing," the man he's been mentally referring to as ' _the brains_ ' says then gestures to his partner, ' _the muscle,_ ' who has been doing most of the hitting. "Him not so much."

"Everyone's a critic," Jack wheezes, sucking in enough oxygen to launch into his next tirade. "With their blogs and vlogs, nowadays, everyone's gotta get the last word in there, gotta share their opinion with the world-" Jack is slammed against the chair, cutting off the next portion of his diatribe.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

Jack scrunches up his face. "Now, I hate to be nitpicky, especially since I was just complaining about the critics, but that line is overused. It's lost the emotional impact."

Jack's head snaps back from the punch. Blood runs down his chin.

"What do you think of the physical impact?" ' _The muscle_ ' asks.

"Untie me a second and I can show you how to throw a better punch," Jack taunts. He sees stars with the next hit. He feels the skin split on the side of his face. "That was a little better."

Jack will probably have to thank ' _the brains._ ' Maybe send him a card once Mac turns the tables and they take him into custody because he's pretty sure that man is the only reason ' _the muscle'_ didn't bash his head with that last comment. Jack has a knack for pissing people off.

He's also a champ at taking the hits. Especially if that gives Mac a chance to do his thing, and keeps him safely away from the blows. Sure, Jack's going to be spending some quality time with an ice pack when they get home. And Mac will have to keep waking him up to check his neurological status, which, while annoying, Jack has found ways to keep it interesting, but this far from the worst beating he's ever taken. He'll take the hits all day long if it keeps the bad guys distracted and Mac safe.

"Who else knows you're here?"

"What are you talking about, man?" Jack scowls his voice condescending. "I'm here alone."

"Hmm. I see," ' _the brains_ ' says in such a way that Jack has a bad feeling about this. And instantly scolds himself for using that line. It's a sure fire way to make sure things really do go bad.

There's commotion as the door to the cell swings open. ' _The henchmen,_ ' but Jack's gleeful smirk at his continued use of cliched nicknames lasts only a second. His heart sinks, as his partner is pulled into the room, struggling all the while. A bruise already forming on his jaw, and Jack feels his own jaw clench in anger. The kid is strong and wiry and a bear to hang onto when he's struggling to get away, but he is scrawny compared to these goons. They didn't have to rough him up so much to take him down.

"Thought you said you were here alone," the man taunts, looking at Jack while walking toward Mac.

"Am I supposed to know that kid?" Jack puts effort into sounding bored. Into sounding like his world isn't falling down around his ears.

"You're saying you don't?"

"Nope," he pops the 'p'.

They pull Mac further into the room, forcing him to his knees in front of Jack's chair, grabbing a handful of Mac's hair, jerking Mac's head back with a snap. A flinch crosses Mac's face as he chokes off a yelp. A cold fury settles into Jack's chest. These men can hit him all they like, but they crossed the line when they laid a hand on Mac. It takes all his years of experience to keep the anger and pain out of his eyes.

"Take a closer look," ' _the brains_ ' says. "Maybe your vision is cloudy. Too many blows to the head."

Neck exposed, Mac's adam's apple bobs as he swallows. There's defiance in Mac's gaze, but Jack can read regret. Regret at getting caught; guilt that he feels Jack is bleeding for nothing.

Jack shrugs, giving nothing away.

"Fine," ' _brains_ ' says. "You don't know him, he has no value to me." He releases Mac's hair. He chambers a round and pushes the gun against the back of Mac's head. Positioning Mac now so that he's looking Jack in the eye.

This was not in the playbook.

Mac's eyes widen, struggling against the strong arms holding him. No locks for him to pick with a paperclip or ropes to slice through with a button shiv.

"Wait!" Jack yells, the situation taking a surprising turn for the worse. "He's just a kid." He fights against the restraints "Leave him alone!"

The man shrugs.

The gun fires.

Mac crumples. Jack screams.

He doesn't stop screaming.

His vision turns red. He's not sure if it's rage or blood running into his eyes. The restraints holding him to the chair snap, and in the space of a heartbeat he's on his feet. The chair cracks over ' _the muscle's_ ' head, and the man slams against the floor.

The two men who dragged Mac into Jack's cell are on the ground before they knew what hit them. Leaving only ' _the brains,_ ' who suddenly, can't hold that title. Because shooting Mac made him an idiot.

Shooting Mac unleashed a beast.

Jack tears the gun from the man's hand. In his haze he hears bone snapping, crunching under his hands. He considers, for a moment, using the gun, but decides its too merciful. He wants this man to pay. He dissembles the gun in a quick practiced movement that doesn't require a thought and throws it across the room. His hands close around the man's throat, pushing him against the wall, tightening his grip.

Jack sees the fear and panic in the eyes of his prey. The realization that he's underestimated his former captive, and that he's made a devastating mistake. His hands scramble and claw at his throat, but Jack's grip never wavers. He continues to meet the man's gaze until those eyes start to slide closed.

There's a whisper that breaks through the fugue.

His name.

Mac's voice.

Jack's hands release, and the limp body falls from his grasp.

He turns towards the voice, not sure what he's expecting. A ghost. A chance to say goodbye. A chance to beg forgiveness for not being enough.

Mac is struggling to rise from the floor. Blood coating the right side of his face, turning blond hair dark, the collar of his shirt saturated, a pool on the floor underneath him.

Jack feels his heart stop. He still doesn't know what he's seeing. He can't process the scene in front of him with the vision he expected.

He staggers towards his partner. His legs give out and he drops beside Mac. He raises a shaky hand, slowly, excruciatingly, and stalls just short of touching Mac. Fingers aching to touch, to confirm the image he's seeing, to verify life. Refute the horror his mind supplied after hearing the crack of the gunshot.

Warm, bloody fingers close around Jack's hand. Mac's pupils blown wide.

Jack chokes on oxygen. His chest spasms in dueling hope and terror; Mac's rasping breath echoes.

"Jack," Mac breathes, and it spurs Jack to action. One hand pressed firmly against the pulse point under Mac's jaw, life thrumming, racing, beneath his fingertips, his other searching through the blood, hair and terror.

"Jack," the word passes from bloodless lips.

"It's okay, you're okay," Jack's voice trembles and breaks. He repeats the words, a promise, a prayer.

A crease runs along Mac's scalp. Powder burns under his hair. Jack's fingers gently probe. Mac whimpers but remains still under his ministrations.

It was too close.

Millimeters too close.

 _A hair's breadth_.

Jack's not sure which one of them is shaking more.

He pulls off his shirt and presses it against the wound. Mac hisses and tries to pull away. Jack captures Mac's chin and holds on, trying to stem the bleeding that continues to pour down Mac's face.

"Head wounds bleed a lot," Jack whispers to himself, to Mac. Reassurance. Mac's eyes still wide. "Put pressure on this."

Mac doesn't move.

Jack frowns. The terror that was slowly releasing it's grip on his chest, tightening it's hold again. The realization that Mac has barely moved, and hasn't done more than say his name almost as if a reflex. His quick exam of the kid can't show the damage that was done inside. The hand not holding the dressing comes up to cup Mac's cheek. He leans forward, peering into Mac's eyes.

"Mac..." his own beginning to flood with tears.

Mac reaches up and brushes his hand against Jack's. "I can't hear you," he gestures towards his ear. "Tinnitus."

Jack releases a shuddering breath, it takes his remaining vestiges of strength not to immediately drop to the floor in relief.

A bloody handprint paints Mac's cheek when Jack pulls his hand away. It's so mild compared to the rivulets that run down the other side of Mac's face, but it looks worse to Jack.

He takes Mac's hand, guiding it to the makeshift bandage.

Mac's movements are tentative, reluctance to have his hands anywhere near the wound but he follows the wordless directions to hold it in place. Another whimper escapes and claws at Jack's chest.

"We're getting out of here." Jack says uselessly, knowing Mac can't hear the words, as he pulls his partner into his arms.

Mac gasps in surprise, his arm sliding around Jack's neck at the sudden motion. Eyes clench tightly shut as Mac's grip tightens on Jack.

Jack's gait is slow, painful but remarkably steady. His arms hold the most precious cargo.

They cause quite a stir arriving at the nearest emergency department, in a small rural hospital, saturated with blood and refusing to let go of each other.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Chapter One was quick and efficient whump, Chapter Two is long angsty comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I got a few messages expressing interest in a follow up chapter. Hope you enjoy

Mac hisses as his wrist is twisted behind his back, shoved upward against his spine, used to control his movements. Stopping his struggles as pain lightnings through the joint and up through his arm.

The man on his left is missing a tooth which Mac has to admit, he's feeling pretty proud about. At least until his jaw clacks shut from a blow that would have sent him to the ground if he wasn't being held upright, and leaves his head spinning. In the moments it takes to regain his equilibrium he's half marched, half dragged down a long hallway. He struggles, fighting to free himself, resisting every step of the way, despite jabs to his ribs prodding him forward. He grunts as his arm is viciously thrust higher on his back, trying to ignore the ache in his elbow and shoulder.

The two men don't say anything. Even when they sneaked up behind him, they didn't ask questions. Didn't give him a chance to spin a story explaining his actions. Not that there are too many lies that can explain his breaking into the hidden safe.

Mac stays quiet too. He knows that it's disconcerting when a prisoner doesn't immediately protest innocence or make threats. He feels the two men exchanging glances behind him; wondering what his play is here and if he has more back up to contend with.

Unfortunately, he can hear his back up down the hall. Barely able to make out Jack's muffled, but taunting, sarcastic voice, picking fights and insulting his captor's ability to throw a punch. It causes a faint smile to twitch on Mac's lips despite the circumstances. Leave it to Jack. Some of the best insults Mac has ever heard came when Jack's been tied to a chair.

Jack's voice is getting louder and Mac feels a mild relief that they seem to be taking him to the same room Jack's being held. Despite his teasing Jack for the fuss he makes when they split up, Mac doesn't like it when they split either, intentionally or not.

His relief doesn't last long, not once he's pulled inside the room.

Jack looks up, so hopefully, at the commotion as the door opens. Expectantly, that the plan was successful and Mac is here with some sort of flash-bang grenade to take out the bad guys and rescue him.

Mac can see the way Jack's eyes don't look quite right, obviously concussed. The moment it takes to register the failure; the way Jack's face falls when Mac is pulled further into the room.

Jack is bleeding.

It's not a surprise. This plan often requires Jack to bleed. Mac hates using it. He hates how willing Jack is to pull out this plan. Hates how quickly he suggests it. Mac half-wonders if taking the hits is a way for Jack to punish himself for things he's done in the past; despite Jack's protests that it's what he's good at.

Mac hates this plan even more right now because he failed on his end of the plan. Jack is bleeding with nothing to show for it. He let Jack be the distraction and didn't hold up his part of the deal. Didn't get the intel. Can't provide a rescue.

Blood rushes heavily down Jack's face; ebbs and flows around his eye and across his cheekbone, the skin broken above his left eyebrow and temple. Mac knows Jack is in for too many stitches and butterfly bandages once they're home. He hates that this will add to the collection of scars on his partner's skin. Hates when he's the cause for scars that Jack wears like a badge of honor.

"Thought you said you were here alone," the words are directed towards Jack. A taunting sneer, daring him to lie.

"Am I supposed to know that kid?" His words are condescending, bored. No one else in the world would hear the way Jack's voice catches on the lie. No one except Mac.

"You're saying you don't?"

"Nope."

Mac can hear the effort, the almost physical strain, Jack is making to sound relaxed, disinterested. Recognizing the way Jack pops the word out of his mouth, trying to disguise the hitch in his voice. The worry that this mission has become more complicated than planned.

Mac remains quiet, voicing no protests. There's no reason for him to say anything. The men obviously don't believe Jack, and he's the better liar of the two of them.

Mac fights back against the men dragging him further into the room. His eyes scanning for something, anything he can use, but there's nothing except the chair where Jack is restrained.

Anger is building in Jack's eyes as he watches Mac struggle.

A hand between his shoulder blades shoves him forward. His knees hit the cold concrete with a hollow crack that reverberates up his spine and into his shoulders.

He meets Jack's eyes for a moment before a hand tangles in his hair; maliciously twisting the locks and forcing his head back with a snap.

He hates the yelp that escapes his throat at the surprising motion. His eyes prickle from the sting in his scalp. He swallows.

His memory flooding at the sensation, a drug cartel in Mexico, a bank in Puerto Rico, the woods in Washington. Each of those moments while equally terrifying has nothing on this moment. Because every time some murderer or drug runner or bank robber thought they could exert their power and intimidate him, Mac had a secret weapon.

Jack on the outside. Mac knew, despite his circumstances that he could count on Jack for a rescue. Jack would stop at nothing to find him. Save him.

This time, Jack isn't in a position to provide a rescue. This time, Jack was counting on Mac and he failed.

Jack would never fail him Mac.

The tension in Jack's shoulders scares him. He sees the cold fury in the set of Jack's jaw, escalated by their rough treatment of Mac. He worries that Jack is going to do something stupid.

"Take a closer look. Maybe your vision is cloudy. Too many blows to the head."

He tries to catch Jack's gaze again. Tries to fill his own eyes with defiance and anger. He can't help the worry and regret that bleeds through, though he tries to hide it. He knows that Jack will see it. Will see it as a challenge. See it as a reason to direct the goons' attention towards himself again. As an excuse to do something stupid.

"Fine. You don't know him, he has no value to me."

Mac's hair is roughly released. The clacking sound of a round being chambered in the otherwise quiet room.

Jack protests.

Cold metal of the gun barrel against Mac's head, pushing it forward so he's staring at Jack. Looking him in the eye.

He struggles against the hands at his back. It has to be a bluff. Calling out Jack's lies, get them to admit they're in this together. Try to flip one against the other.

Otherwise, he doesn't see a way out.

This is it.

The end of the line.

Not exactly how he saw this going. Definitely not the mission he imagined going out on.

Jack is protesting. Shouting. Sinewy muscles rippling, straining.

What will his death do to Jack? Deep down, Mac knows the answer. It doesn't matter how the rest of the mission plays out. One way or another, Jack will follow him soon after.

Mac wants to say something, to stop Jack, to absolve him. To place the blame of this nightmare where it belongs, squarely on Mac's own shoulders.

He doesn't get the chance.

Piercing, blinding.

He has half a second to wonder why it hurts so bad.

Excruciating.

He never imagined it would hurt like this.

It should be fast. Merciful, almost.

Gone before his body strikes the floor.

Darkness closes in but the pain remains.

Searing.

Consuming all thought.

There is nothing except pain.

 And darkness.

And slowly, a metallic smell tickling his nose.

Dueling sensations of warm and cold beneath him.

He doesn't think he's dead, and it surprises him. Both the idea that he thinks he should be dead and the fact that he's not.

He can't think of much beyond 'hurts' and 'not dead,' but there is something insistent prodding him. Something wrong. Something important.

His fingers brush tentatively against the floor. It's wet and warm, sticky against his fingertips. His hand slides across the floor again and he realizes he's laying in a puddle of blood. He struggles to rise, slip sliding, trying to gain traction and get out of this mess.

There's so much blood.

Jack was bleeding, he remembers. He needs to get up. He needs to get to Jack.

"Jack." He can barely hear the whispered word. His voice muffled, far away. He doesn't know if Jack can even hear his name through the buzz filling the room.

Everything is dark, encapsulated in shadows. Disorientating. He squints to clear his vision, but the foggy haze remains. Across the room, a blurry figure freezes at his voice.

Mac tries again to rise, making it to his knees as the room sways. He has to get to Jack.

His hand slips again and he loses his balance. The room dips and spins, defying him. He has to know if Jack is okay. It's desperate and overriding any thought of pain.

Jack drops to his knees in front of Mac, his hand reaches out and just, stops. Freezes. Fingers trembling, as if terrified to close that gap between them.

So close. Too far.

Mac needs to touch Jack. Needs to know he's okay. Mac raises his own shaky hand, his fingers catch Jack's. They're warm and solid.

Jack is searching for Mac's pulse under his jawline, as if the sight of Mac upright isn't enough to confirm life.

Terror grips Mac's heart, as Jack's hands move towards his head. Smoothing aside his hair to find the source of the bleeding. He half expects Jack to find part of his skull blown away. He still doesn't understand why he's alive.

"Jack," his eyes search Jack's face. Jack's eyes focus on the side of Mac's head.

Jack's mouth is moving, quickly, racing words tumbling. And Mac realizes it's not the room that's filled with buzzing but his head. Mac can't hear the words. But he knows them. He recognizes the shape Jack's mouth makes. The too familiar reassurance and the comforting words Jack provides. He wishes he could hear them now. Hear something besides the buzz in his ears and the gunshot reverberating in his memory.

Mac swallows a whimper of pain. It takes all his remaining self-control to remain still as Jack's fingers examine the wound. Fingers that tremble as they touch him.

Blood continues coursing down Mac's face. He looks up at Jack. A macabre mirror of matching bloody rivulets.

Jack pulls off his own shirt, pressing it against the side of Mac's head. His fourth favorite Metallica shirt, Mac recognizes.

Mac can't stop flinching at the touch this time, pulling away. Jack doesn't let him get away, capturing Mac's chin. Gently, but firmly holding his face.

Blood stings against his eye.

Jack is talking again. Mac still can't make out the words but he's sure it's still a steady stream of comfort and encouragement for both of them.

Except that Jack's mouth freezes into a distressed frown. There's new panic on his face. He leans forward, hand cupping the opposite, unblemished side of Mac's face.

Mac feels his own pulse quicken at Jack's actions. Worrying. Wondering what Jack noticed that Mac hasn't yet, until he realizes Jack is examining his eyes. Right. Mac hasn't responded to anything Jack's said yet. Hasn't offered his own reassurances that he'll be okay. Of course, that's sending his partner into a tailspin of panic. Jack is expecting him to protest and say that he's fine. To say something, anything to relieve Jack's worry and tension.

His hand covers the one Jack's placed against his cheek.

"I can't hear you. Tinnitus," Mac explains. His voice sounds far away in his own head. Speaking causes a high pitched whine that's worse than the low buzzing. He resists the urge to groan at the noise.

Jack slowly pulls his hand from Mac's face, leaving a tacky residue of blood behind. He grasps Mac's hand and guides it towards the wound. The implicit instruction for Mac to hold pressure while Jack gets them out of here. Actions they've repeated too many times.

Mac tries and fails to choke back another whimper as he holds the tee to the bloody wound. His free hand slips around Jack's neck as he's lifted into the air. Closing his eyes at the spinning sensation the sudden change in position causes.

All he can do is hold on tight.

  

* * *

 

There are some things you just don't do. You don't say "it's quiet" in a hospital. You don't say "easy mission" to an agent. Matty knows better than to even think those words. But everything in the planning and briefing described what should be an in and out mission. No need for ex-fil waiting in the wings. No comms being monitored in the war room. Just two agents, a few hours away, and a check-in when it was finished. Which they missed.

This is the third time she's caught Riley eyeing the clock.

It's Mac and Jack. They tend to see these check ins as more of an option. They'll finish their mission and get to the debrief, eventually. It's a habit of theirs she still hasn't managed to break.

They probably did something they don't want to confess to her. Mac blew something up. Jack hit someone he shouldn't have. She should consider this time a reprieve before she has to sort through their after action reports and explain why a think tank has such a large budget for molasses and fertilizer.

Her agents need her planning for, but not worrying about, the worst case scenarios. It's a fine line, that keeps getting blurrier.

The next time Riley furtively looks at the clock, Matty covertly eyes the timepiece as well. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Unknown number coming in," Riley says. A note of hope in her wary voice that this might finally be a message from their incommunicado teammates.

"Put it through," Matty instructs.

A moment later Jack's voice echoes through the room. "Matty, get me directions to the nearest hospital," he says as soon as the connection is made. His gravelly voice terse. Sharper than normal.

Matty feels her heart plummet at the words.

Riley fingers instantly clicking across her keyboard, punching in coordinates and plotting a route.

"What's going on, Jack?" Matty asks, forcing herself to remain calm until she hears more. Where Mac is concerned, Jack does have a tendency to overreact, but she did notice that Mac hasn't immediately jumped in to reassure the team waiting at home.

"It went to hell, Matilda." The sound of tires squealing through the connection. Followed by a whimper that sounds suspiciously like Mac. It breaks her heart that she can identify her agent by the noise he makes when he's in pain.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Jack's voice sounds farther away like he's pulled the phone away from his mouth.

"Jack..." Riley asks tentatively.

"Get me those directions, Ri," Jack interrupts. " _Please."_

"Already on your phone," Riley replies.

"Matty, call ahead for us. Tell 'em we're coming in with a gunshot to the head."

Riley's already worried face blanches.

Matty squares her shoulders, but she can't help the faint sheen that fills her eyes or the horror on her face at Jack's words.

"He's awake and pretty responsive. I don't think it penetrated, just... just a graze." Jack's voice cracks. "There's so much blood, Matty."

"Get him to the hospital, Jack," Matty commands, working hard to keep her voice steady and strong. To give Jack something to grab onto, when his normal source of strength is bleeding in the seat next to him. "We're coming to you."

Jack doesn't reply and a moment later the connection ends.

"Find Bozer, and the two of you go back up Jack at the hospital," Matty instructs, immediately jumping into action. "I'm sending a TAC team to secure the scene. If they shot Mac, I imagine there won't be much left that Jack didn't raze."

Riley rises immediately heading for the door, where she pauses and looks back at her boss. Looking for reassurance.

Matty stares back at Riley. Her gaze even. As much as she wants to, she can't promise that everything will be fine.

"Go, Riley," Matty instructs. "They need you."

Riley nods and heads to the lab to find Bozer and break the news of their impromptu road trip.

 

* * *

 

Walking into an emergency department in blood saturated clothing helps to bypass the queue in triage. Matty calling ahead probably paved the way as well. Medical personnel is waiting as soon Jack walks through the doors, arms full of Mac.

He carefully deposits Mac onto a gurney but doesn't let go. Not completely, despite attempts to get Jack onto his own cot. Clearly, most of the blood can be traced back to Mac. But Jack's not without obvious injuries of his own, and the medical staff would really feel more comfortable if he was at least sitting down.

"After I know he's okay, you can do whatever you want to me," Jack promises, retiring to Mac's left side to allow the medical staff access. "But I thought I just watched the kid get murdered today, so forgive me if I'm a little clingy."

Mac must be feeling the same, because his hand curls into Jack's bloodstained white undershirt, holding him close. He knows he should let go. Vaguely remembering his earlier concerns that Jack has a probable concussion but he can't make his fingers release.

It's too bright and too busy, like his eyes are working overtime because his ears aren't. But they're overwhelmed and everything is blurry and haloed. He tries and fails not to flinch every time someone touches him.

Mac shivers. He can't seem to get warm, whether from the chill of clothes still damp with blood or from shock, he's not sure. His chattering teeth send spikes of agony through his skull.

A nurse coaxes his hand away from his head, where he still held the remains of Jack's bloody t-shirt to the wound. Saline flushes loosen the material, trying to remove it without tearing away any clots that have started to slow the steady bleeding.

They cut away Mac's shirt, which isn't the end of the world because he's pretty sure the blood stains are never coming out, no matter how long he soaks the material. He probably wouldn't wear it again anyway. He's not superstitious about clothes, or anything really, but he would be forced to acknowledge that he almost died wearing this shirt every time he put it on.

And Jack is superstitious. 'Naw, just regular 'stitious, hoss,' he can almost hear the words, as if his partner just spoke them. They already have too many moments reminding them of their mortality. They don't need another reminder.

Still, cutting it off seems a little dramatic to him. Though the thought of pulling it over his head isn't appealing.

Actually, he wonders if he should consider it a lucky shirt, because this could have been, should have been, so much worse. The in his struggles against the arms holding him, he managed to move, to wriggle just enough to end up with a crease rather than losing half his skull and a bullet rattling through his brain. He is incredibly lucky.

He doesn't feel lucky in this moment. He feels pain, and lightheaded. Nauseated. Exposed.

It's still too bright. A thrum of energy, of organized chaos swirling around him. It's too much. He turns to look at Jack, but his partner takes half a step back, allowing a nurse access to Mac's arm, and Mac is forced to let go of Jack's shirt.

She wraps a blood pressure cuff around his bicep. It starts to tighten, painfully. He focuses on that tight squeeze, hoping it's enough to ground him in the moment, since Jack has let go of him, and stepped outside his peripheral vision. He stares down at the inflating blue sleeve, releasing a slow breath.

A hand grasps his chin and raises his head. An alarmed gasp escapes his lips as he's blinded by a flash of light in his eyes.

He's struggling away from the hand and the light. He knows it's a doctor. He knows he should hold still and let himself get looked over, but he can't stop the startled reflex of someone this close, in his space, without warning. Without the benefit of hearing them approach. And as the hand tightens on his chin and fingers pull at his eyelid every instinct is telling him to get away. Get away.

Jack's voice breaks through the dull roar in his ears. The worlds aren't clear, but the timbre is familiar. It's calm. Delta sniper calm.

The hand releases his chin and the light disappears. The figure in front of him takes half a step back. Jack leans, infinitesimally, towards the blurry figure, just enough to get his point across. Then holds out his hand placatingly.

Jack steps into Mac's field of vision, a gentle hand against the side of Mac's neck.

"They need to look at you, bud." He thinks Jack says. Knows it's close enough to whatever words he actually used.

Mac lets out a slow breath. "I know. I know. I just--"

Jack murmurs again, the rushing buzz distorting the words.

"I'm okay. I'm good."

"You sure?" Jack asks, scanning Mac's eyes.

Mac takes a deep breath and nods.

Jack fades back to his position at Mac's left side. His good side. Near his good ear, Mac realizes. He thought, initially, it was just to allow medical staff access to the wound. But through the bustle, Jack's fought to stay on his left, on the side where maybe Mac will be able to hear him.

Jack's hand remains on the juncture of Mac's shoulder and neck, calming. Steady. Grounding.

The doctor steps forward again. This time holding up the penlight and a terrible pantomime of trying to explain what he's doing.

And Jack complains that Mac's bad at charades.

It's nowhere near Mac's first neuro check, so with a quick warning that his personal space is about to be invaded again, he's more than ready for the onslaught of still too bright light, in too wide pupils. He follows the mimed directions as best he can. Stealing glances at Jack's worried face between directed tasks: checking his eye movement, pupil reactions and facial sensations. Raising his shoulders against resistance, testing his reflexes, muscle strength and coordination.

And through it all, Jack's eyes never stray from him, studying his responses as keenly as the doctor examining him. Waiting with bated breath for assurances that Mac is alright.

Mac might, at times, complain about his complete lack of privacy, Jack always in his business, but this is not one of those times. He's so shaken, that he finds the intensity of Jack's stare soothing. Jack is paying attention, taking control, as he does, so Mac can focus on not falling apart.

The doctor is saying something else that Mac has difficulty deciphering, and disappears before Mac can voice that he didn't understand.

Jack's hand tightens on his shoulder again, claiming his attention. Warning him that Jack is going to lean into his space again.

"CT scan," Jack's mouth against his left ear.  

Mac nods his understanding. Jack fixes his grip on Mac's shoulder, he's blinking furiously.

"Keep still, hoss," Mac reads the words on Jack's lips. "Don't jostle your brain anymore, okay, kid."

  

* * *

  
Jack collapses against the gurney as he watches Mac being wheeled off for imaging. He blows out a slow breath, squeezing the bridge of his nose. Now that he's out of Mac's sight, allows himself a moment to crack.

His hands shake and he grasps the edge of the cot to steady himself. It wasn't an exaggeration. He really thought Mac had been killed. That when the fugue lifted he'd find Mac's blood, and bone and bits of brain splattered against his clothes.

A full body tremor wracks through him at the thought of Mac's brain matter splattering. He swallows convulsively, breathing deeply through his clenched jaw. 

He can't allow himself much more than a few shaky, tearful breaths. He has to be ready for the moment Mac is back in the room. The doctor is vague about what they'll find through the scans. The fact that Mac is alert, following directions and no obvious neurological deficits besides his hearing loss, eases anxiety, but the doctor doesn't want to talk about what ifs.

That's okay, Jack's brain in filling them in just fine.

There's a rustling at the curtain of the cubicle that he's ashamed to admit startles him. He continues blinking back tears, trying to regain control of his emotions.

"He's going to be gone at least fifteen minutes" the nurse tells him.

Jack nods, not trusting his voice at the moment.

"Plenty of time to get stitched up and into a scanner yourself before he comes back."

He swallows. "I didn't tell him where I was going, and he's kind of overwhelmed at the moment."

She nods sympathetically, and he feels bad that he can't remember her name, even though he knows she told him. "We can leave him a note."

"I already know I've got a concussion," Jack says. "Don't know that I need any scans to prove it."

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Have you got an excuse prepared to get out of the stitches too?"

Jack breaks out his most disarming smile. "I think I'd look real distinguished with a jagged scar." His finger traces the longest cut. He doesn't want to risk not being in the room when Mac gets back.

"You want him to have that as a reminder every time he looks at you?" She asks. "And, something tells me, he'll be more likely to listen to you if you follow your own advice and look less like a survivor of the apocalypse."

Jack frowns. "Do all nurses fight dirty?" He shakes his head, seeing the wisdom in her words. He might as well get himself looked at while Mac is occupied. Less time he has to spend away from the kid. "Just let me make a quick phone call?"

"I'll get a suture kit."

  

* * *

  
Riley's driven a garbage truck with a bomb in the back. An oxygen tanker while mercenaries pursued them and Mac hung onto the back attempting to secure a leaking valve. That doesn't compare to the fear she feels as she speeds down the highway.

Her mom always complained about her lead foot. Blamed Jack for it. A running family joke for a while. He protested the accusation, of course, but he was a liar. She now realizes he did teach her the basics of pursuit and evasive driving tactics at sixteen. It was their secret, at the time. Knowing his love of movies, Riley assumed he'd taken some sort of 'pretend that you're Tom Cruise' driving lessons and wanted to show off.

The joke stopped after Jack left, but his impression on their lives lingered in many ways. Particularly in Riley's driving.

If her mom thought she had a lead foot at sixteen she should see Riley now.

"Did Jack say anything else?" Bozer asks again for what feels like the hundredth time since they've started this road trip.

"Just that he's awake and responsive," Riley tries to keep the irritation out of her voice. She knows if the situation was reversed she'd be pestering Bozer for any little detail that might give her a clue to Mac's wellbeing. It's not even annoyance at Bozer's questions. It's that he's looking to her for answers she doesn't have. Asking the questions that are burning in her mind too. Voicing the fears that she's trying to keep buried deep. Because if she lets them out, she worries she'll start spiraling.

"How upset did he sound?"

"It's Jack," Riley says with a small shake of her head. Jack sounds upset if he hears Mac didn't eat lunch that day. Though, this is about as upset as Riley's ever heard him. She doesn't want to voice that thought aloud.

Bozer nods. The distress in Jack's voice isn't always directly proportional to the gravity of the situation, especially when Mac's involved. "Did Mac say anything?"

Riley stares straight out the windshield, willing the miles to pass faster. "He didn't say anything." It's not a lie. Mac didn't utter a word. She doesn't need to tell Bozer about the cry of pain she heard.

In the few minutes from the end of the phone call until Matty handed out orders Riley's fingers flew across her keyboard, pulling up search results and medical journals, skimming them quickly. The answers ranged from mild to devastating. They are in limbo until they hear more from Jack.

Bozer's phone pings. "It's from the TAC team?" He looks over at Riley, confusion evident.

"I might have set up a routing system before we left. Any information coming in from TAC at the scene gets sent to your phone too."

"You hacked, Matty?" Bozer whispers, but he's already opening the attachments, waiting anxiously for the files to load.  He scrolls through the first dozen photos, until he freezes with a sharp intake of breath.

"What is it?" Riley asks concerned. "What's wrong."

"It's, uh..." Bozer clears his throat. "It's a lot of blood."

Riley takes her eyes off the road, looking at the small screen. Matty was right, Jack razed the scene. And if the blood in the middle of the floor all came from Mac, Riley can understand why. It's a lot of blood.

They exchange worried glances as Riley turns her attention back towards the road. Hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel. Her mind racing.

Bozer's phone pings again. Riley doesn't know if she can look at more photos. She regrets seeing the files before they've heard anything more about Mac's condition. All she can think are worst case scenarios.

"Jack!" Bozer answers, putting the call on speaker.

"He's getting his brain scanned right now." Jack clears his throat. "The bleeding hasn't stopped yet. They keep adding new gauze pads to reinforce the dressing."

"But he's awake?" Bozer asks.

"He's awake," Jack confirms. "They're worried about a skull fracture, and infection."

Bozer takes in a sharp breath. "What do they do for that?"

"Guess it depends on the type of fracture." They can hear murmuring in the background. "I-- ah-- I gotta go. I probably have a concussion too, but they don't want to just take my word for it."

"Get yourself checked out too, Jack," Riley says, her voice serious. "Completely, okay. You wouldn't let any of us brush this off, so don't you skimp on yourself. Mac needs you to be okay. We all need you."

"I gotcha, Ri," Jack says, his voice cracking.

"We're on our way, Jack," Bozer says. "We're coming as fast as Riley can drive."

Riley glances at Bozer as the call disconnects and pusher her foot down a little firmer on the gas pedal.

 

* * *

  
Jack is feeling frustrated. He's been gone from Mac too long. After his scan, they brought him to his own cubicle, and helped him onto his own gurney, despite his protests that he is fine, and can't they just look him over in Mac's room?

He reluctantly submits to the exam, recalling his promise to Riley and Bozer.

They clean the cuts and abrasions; closing the wounds with stitches and steristrips. He balks at the hospital gown though, and someone finds him a set of surgical scrubs to replace his blood saturated clothes.

Jack frowns as he walks into the still empty room. Crimson soaked gauze lay on the bed, the floor and in the garbage can. The remnants of the saturated dressings confirm that this is the room Jack left over thirty minutes ago. They promised him Mac would be back in the room by the time he was.

Jack can feel the uptick in his pulse. He should have waited until Mac was back before submitting to his own medical care. What if something is wrong? What if Mac took a turn for the worse while he was off getting a couple stitches in his face? He could live without the stitches. He can't live without Mac.

He takes a deep breath to calm himself. Every single person knows he came in with Mac. Someone would have gotten him if something was wrong.

Right?

He's about to head out to the nurse's station when a noise in the adjoining bathroom catches his attention.

"Mac?" Jack calls, tapping on the door as he pulls it open. "Aw, hell, kid."

Mac is on his knees, hunched over the toilet, shoulders heaving as he retches. The loose-fitting hospital gown falling open in the back; revealing streaks of dried blood that leaked from his head, down his neck, and across his shoulder.

Jack steps into the small room, focused on comforting his kid. His hand reaches out. His fingers skimming the wisps of blonde hair turned dark, that curl against Mac's neck. With a yelp, Mac recoils, scrambling away from the touch. Eyes roving wildly searching for the threat.

Jack is going to kick himself hard enough to induce a second concussion.

Mac didn't hear him coming. There was just suddenly a presence at his back, which would startle him in the best of circumstances.  Only minutes ago, he watched Mac freak out when someone invaded his personal space, unannounced. Here he is, doing the same thing. Sending the kid reeling, reliving the traumatic nightmare. The vulnerability of being on his knees, and someone touching his hair.

Jack bites his tongue to keep himself from cursing, not wanting his anger to upset Mac more.

It aches, the thought that he caused Mac more pain. That he invoked fear.

Jack lowers himself to the floor and holds out a hand in front of him. Like he would do for spooked animals, like he's done for Mac a time or two when a flashback gets the best of him. He murmurs quiet words of comfort, more for himself now. He doesn't know how to calm Mac without using words.

"Easy, hoss," he continues to whisper. Hoping that Mac's heard the calming words often enough that his brain will fill in the blanks with Jack's voice.

"It's okay. You're okay." Jack inhales sharply, upon saying the words he repeated in the moments after the gun fired. Blood still trickles down Mac's face, around the bandages. His eyes too wide. Filled with fear. It's all too much to live through again. The hand he's holding out to Mac starts to tremble. He can't stop it.

Mac's fingers close around his. "I'm okay."

Jack smiles.

After a moment, Mac rises, ungainly, trying to brush off Jack's hands that reach out to steady him.

"I can do it," Mac's voice stubborn.

Jack recognizes it. Embarrassment at his perceived weakness. Frustration with the way so many people have been fussing over him. Mac's feeling overwhelmed, a loss of control. Jack knows that it's made worse by the vulnerability of his hearing loss. The way he's been manhandled by the bad guys but also here in the hospital, onto the gurney, out of his clothes. Not intentionally, but with the urgency that comes with an emergency medical situation.

Mac hates feeling vulnerable.

Jack doesn't know if anyone likes being in a hospital, but Mac in particular bristles under the attention.

So Jack hovers, but doesn't touch. At least not yet.

"You supposed to be up by yourself already?" Jack asks when Mac shoots a pointed look at Jack's hands, outstretched, waiting to catch him if he stumbles. Jack knows it's irritating the kid. "If you end up on the floor I'll be in trouble."

It's disconcerting to have the kid look at him blankly. Unsure of the words Jack is speaking to him. Jack wonders if this is the same expression on his face when Mac launches into some sciencey explanation.

Mac quirks an eyebrow at him, then flinches at the discomfort the motion causes, and reached out for Jack to steady himself, frowning all the while. But he allows Jack to help him settle onto the cot.

"Why'd you get a set of scrubs and I'm in this?" Mac frowns, tugging at the oversized hospital gown, falling loose around his shoulders.

"It shows off your legs," Jack jokes. "And I might be even more stubborn than you are."

Mac squints at Jack, trying to lip read and failing.  "Just get me some pants and take me home."

"As soon as I can, bud," Jack promises. He's lying. If they offer a choice, go home or stay, Jack will pick stay. No matter how hard Mac argues or whines. He wants Mac safely bundled in a bed, with supervision on his vital signs. With sure, steady hands to reinforce the gauze dressings when the bleeding shadows through. He likes seeing the trace of Mac's heart rhythm on the monitor above the bed. It chases away the terror that grips Jack's chest. Today was too close.

Jack doesn't know if he'll ever sleep again. With each blink he sees Mac's struggles against the goons that held him. The fear in Mac's eyes. The muzzle flash and how Mac's body slumps to the floor.

Too close.

Jack keeps up a steady stream of one-sided conversation as they wait. It's not an unusual experience for him. In a normal situation, he gets an occasional smart ass comment from Mac. In a hospital situation, usually when he's sitting at Mac bedside he's getting zero response. So eyes opened, even if Mac can't hear anything is an improvement.

Mac's imaging shows a linear skull fracture.

"Basically, a hairline fracture, no bone displacement. In a normal situation, we'd observe him for a few hours and send him home," the doctor explains, pulling up images on his tablet and showing both men. "Let it heal on its own."

"On its own?" Jack questions, barely able to make out the small crack in the picture of Mac's skull. "He broke his head and you're going to just send him home?"

The word 'home' must make it through the static buzzing in Mac's head because he perks up at the word.

"No, it is a little more complicated because the skin is broken, that makes this an open fracture, and there's a risk for infection." The doctor hands Mac a series of notes, and highlighted education pamphlets explaining what he's saying. "Forty-eight hours of prophylactic IV antibiotics."

Mac squints at the papers, eyes still blurry. He frowns harder, reaching that part of his reading about the same time the doctor says it out loud. "I have to stay for two days? Can't you just give me pills instead?"

"Mac," Jack catches his attention. "We're going to do whatever the doctor says."

Mac glares at Jack.

"I'm glad you feel that way," the doctor says, as he directs Mac's attention to the next part of his note. "It turns out that there are two rooms right next to each other upstairs."

It's Jack's turn to frown, and a sly smile crosses Mac's face. "We're going to do whatever the doctor says, right Jack?"

  

* * *

  
The number of people who want to take his vital signs, take his blood and examine him is getting on his nerves.

And the list is getting longer.

They've both been admitted to the unit. Jack able to help out with providing Mac's medical history. Luckily, because while some words get through the buzzing in his head, most don't. Mac notices Jack look up at the door suddenly and follows his gaze. A new white coat in the doorway. Jack immediately jumps up, moving to stand next to Mac.

Mac tries to refrain from sighing.

The physician holds out a handwritten note to Mac, waiting as he reads the note of introduction. Dr. Jamison, ENT, ear, nose, throat specialty, called in to consult, before he turns, and addresses Jack as well.

Mac can't hold back a small smile. Word travels quickly apparently, about the scary guard dog at his bedside. Mac wonders if there's a rumor that he bites. Either that or this physician, having the chance to read through the notes on Mac's admission, and the reason he was consulted, prepared ahead of time to explain what he's doing to his recently traumatized, hearing loss patient.

The doctor holds up an otoscope, and Mac nods his understanding and consent.

His uninjured side first. Carefully turning Mac's head, brushing back long locks of hair. A gentle tugging motion on the shell of his ear. Mac stares at the blank wall to his right. A flash of frustration as he feels his heart rate increases and his breathing quickens.

Then his ear is released. The doctor moves toward his other side, positions Mac's head again, and stands just outside his peripheral vision.

Mac tries not to flinch at the proximity. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to control the fear he feels racing through his veins at anything, anyone being that close to the side of his head. His chin trembles and he bites his lip.

 _Stay still, stay still,_ he repeats silently to himself.

He can't stop the sharp, rasping inhale, waiting for the examination to be over. It's taking longer this time, on the injured side. He tries to control his panic, and he's failing.

He opens his eyes, ready to pull away from the doctor's grasp because he can't hold out a moment longer when his eyes lock on Jack's. Standing just out of reach, off to his left, watching the exam with concern on his face. Reading Mac's body language.

Jack takes half a step forward, trying to get closer without getting in the way. Taking slow exaggerated breaths that Mac recognizes and instinctively tries to copy.

In his head, he hears Jack's slow drawl. "Breathe Mac, keep breathing kiddo." He wishes he could hear those words for real, instead of the oppressive droning buzz of tinnitus and the muffled distorted words of the doctor examining him.

It's frustrating. Isolating.

He's dealt with tinnitus before. The lingering muffled audio that follows when he's too close to an explosion. It comes with the territory. But it's different this time.

Now, that the pain in his head is manageable, the ache in his ear makes itself known. He's guessing a ruptured eardrum. Since they called in an ENT doc, he can assume that's what everyone else is guessing too.

His suspicions are confirmed a minute later, as his physician scribbles notes to him on the pad laying on the bedside table. There's already a collection of notes saved for ease of communication, the most frequently used notes ask him about pain, dizziness, and headache. Seriously, every single person who enters the room, including Jack, hand those three notes to him in rotation.

It's annoying.

Reading anything longer than those quickly jotted notes and the words start blending together. It's giving him a headache. More of a headache.

"Is it permanent?" Mac asks, still finding the muffled sound of his own voice disconcerting.

Jack studies the doctor intently. Mac can see his mouth moving as he jots down the answer. Six to eight weeks for the tear to heal and no reason his hearing shouldn't return.

Mac nearly sighs in relief.

The doctor hands him another note, _'how is your pain?'_

Mac barely refrains from rolling his eyes.

The doctor prescribes antibiotic ear drops, which Mac hates with a burning passion. A precaution, the doctor writes his explanation. The middle ear is exposed now, the tear leaving it at risk for infection.

Mac frowns. "But I'm on IV antibiotics." He holds up his hand, tethered to the IV pole, infusing fluids and medication.

The doctor describes a horror story of the unlikely chance that an infection could make its way to Mac's brain. At least Mac thinks that's the story. His head hurts too much to actually read the note. And it sounds very similar to the argument they used to give him prophylactic IV antibiotics and keep him for two days.

Jack frowns.

Mac frowns harder. Of course, the medical staff has already realized that the quickest way to get Mac to cooperate is to sic Jack on him. The look on Jack's face speaks volumes. It's scolding him, telling him to listen to the doctor, not to take chances with his health. It's half teasing, that Jack can't let anything happen to Mac's brain, but there's an undercurrent of fear and worry. Mac relents.

He's caused Jack enough worry these last few hours. It feels like so much longer. Jack's putting off his own rest. Mac can see the fatigue in Jack's face and the concussion in Jack's eyes. Mild, Jack claims, but Mac still sees the headache written in the lines of his face.

So Mac relents, and doesn't fight the planned two night stay for observation and antibiotics. It's not like either of them is up for a drive home at this point. The stolen car they used to get to the hospital probably isn't the best option either.

And he'll allow the ear drops, and try not to flinch when they're administered.

He lets out a shaky breath and wary smile when his nurse Kelly appears with the small bottle of drops. 

It's not that he's trying to be difficult. He hates ear drops in the best of times and this is absolutely not the best of times. 

"It's two drops in your right ear. You'll have to lay on your side for about five minutes afterwards," she explains, while handing him a fact sheets on the med. 

Mac skims the sheet before passing it to Jack to add it to the pile. He's amassed a collection of educational pamphlets. He starts to turn onto his side when Kelly's hand on his shoulder stops him.

"Do you want to do it?" She asks, holding the bottle out to him.

Mac bites his lip considering. He shakes his head after a moment. He doesn't even want his own hands near his head. Doesn't trust them not to tremble. 

Kelly glances behind her where Jack hovers. "Do you want Jack to do it?"

Mac's eyes widen in surprise at the offer. He trusts Jack. 

"Is that allowed?" Mac asks. 

"You're going to discharge with the ear drops. I have to make sure someone knows how to administer them."

Mac looks over Kelly's shoulder. He feels like he shouldn't ask this of Jack. He should let Jack rest, he's got a concussion. It's Mac's fault he's got the concussion. And yet.

He wavers. 

"What do you say, Jack?" Kelly asks. 

"I can't mess this up, can I?"

"No," Kelly assures, holding out the drops. "I have confidence in your aim. Plus I'll be right here."

"You're not going to make me chase you down for these once we get home, right?" Jack teases Mac, as he follows Kelly's directions. 

Mac rolls his eyes grateful for the distraction of familiar teasing. It's not as bad as he feared. 

Jack settles back in the chair next to Mac's bed, once the drops are administered. Crossing his arms against his chest and leaning his head back. 

"You don't have to stay," Mac mumbles, releasing Jack from any perceived obligation to stay with him. It's not fair to expect him to sit here. 

"Where am I gonna go, hoss?"

Mac gives a one shoulder shrug, stilling holding position on his side. "Your room?"

Jack blinks. "Do you want me to leave?"

"It's not fair for me to expect you to stay. Not when I know you have a concussion and at least bruised ribs, and they're my fault." Mac says quietly. 

"I don't remember you hittin' me."

Mac frowns hesitating. "I messed up. You were counting on me, and I got caught. This is my own fault. You've put off taking care of yourself because of me, to stay close and then I make you give me the damn ear drops. I should have just done it myself but I..."

Jack taps him gently on the forehead with one finger, claiming his attention. "Can you hear me?"

Mac nods, "mostly."

"Then listen good. I mean, I'll say it as many times as you need me to say it. I'll write it down and add it to your pile of notes here if you want. None of this was your fault. Not you gettin' shot, and not whatever bruises I might have. And I'll always stay with you. Do whatever you need me to do." Jack leans forward, making eye contact.  "Because I want to."

Jack shushes Mac's protests. "I'll sit here for the rest of my life giving you ear drops if that means you're alive to get them."

 

* * *

  
It's a long corridor that zigs then zags. Even if the hallway didn't jag off to the right, it would be easy to tell where the new construction connects to an old building as almost an afterthought.

This morning Riley and Bozer's pace is an easy stride, not the jog that it was two days ago when they first arrived, consumed with thoughts of the condition they'd find their friends in at the end of the hall. Mildly surprised that, at the time, Jack occupied the room next door. He'd downplayed his injuries when he checked in with them, too wrapped up in his concern for Mac. He was officially discharged yesterday, to Mac's annoyance. Freed from the frequent vitals signs checks and examinations that still plague Mac. It set off a whole new round of negotiations for his own release.

There's no reason to rush this morning. Fear isn't driving their steps. Mac asked them to arrive early, optimistic for an early discharge. Jack told them to pick up breakfast, and some road trip snacks, and not too arrive to early. A realist. He knew Mac would be itching to be cut loose, and if Mac knew the get away car was right outside, he might try to make a break for it, sans discharge paperwork.

The most distressing thing to Riley, out of this whole ordeal, which granted she didn't see the immediate aftermath, only photos, her perception might be skewed, is the lack of customary Mac and Jack bickering.

Not for lack of trying on their parts.

Jack continues with a rolling commentary. He Daltonizes idioms, breaks out his thickest Texas drawl, offers up shady science hypotheses, anything that would normally get a rise out of Mac.

Mac stares, trying desperately to read lips, or to listen for the pitch changes that let him know when Jack is launching into a rant or looking for a response from him. He's surprisingly good at making wild guesses about what's on Jack's mind at the moment, but much like his hearing, his responses are muted. Lacking their loving and mutual mock irritation with each other.

It hurts to watch. Mac's frustration with himself, and the flashes of disappointment on both of their faces.

Riley pauses at the doorway to the room. Bozer stopping short right behind her.

The action calling up muscle memories of two days ago when they arrived. Freezing in the same doorway at the sight that greeted them. Mac sitting propped up in the bed, head turned towards the left, away from the door. Dipping down towards his chest, heavy from the pull of sleep.

Rockin' a new haircut, the right side of his head sheared close to keep the wound clean.

It's fair game for teasing now, days later when the horror has dissipated, but at the time, Riley saw flecks of blood in the folds of Mac's ear, clumps staining blonde hair, and a small streak under his jaw, missed during clean up.

Jack had pulled a chair up next to the bed on Mac's left. Any closer and he'd be in the bed too. And he looked like he should be. Exhaustion written on his face. His legs brushing against the mattress. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. Face taunt with a frown that creased his forehead. Normal laugh lines around his eyes hard like granite with a graze that never wavered from Mac. As if he couldn't look away. As if in the space it takes to blink he'll lose Mac.

And Riley supposed that's how it very nearly went down. That Jack almost lost Mac in the nanosecond of a blink. In the moment between a heartbeat.

No wonder Jack had looked and sounded so distraught. Riley had gone straight to Jack, pulling him close for a hug. He'd buried his face in her shoulder, the words muffled against her shirt as he told them the full story. Whispered broken words of what went down, and the extent of Mac's injuries. Bozer having the forethought to put Matty on speaker, an update, a debrief, because while Jack will live through the moments in his dreams, he won't be able to speak them aloud again. Too painful to voice the terror of the almost-loss.

The sight that greets them this morning is reminiscent of days before. Mac is sitting propped up in the bed. Head turned away from the doorway, canted downward, but this time, not in sleep. Instead watching the nurse carefully peel away the clear adhesive dressing covering his IV site.

Prominent bruising on the exposed skin of Mac's head still on display. Small powder burns pepper the areas around a deep, long mahogany scab. It's a mess of sutures and skin glue. His hand not the focus on the nurse's ministrations, twitches restlessly, twisting the white hospital gown. His usually pale skin is still almost translucent.

Riley would have been surprised to find Mac still in the hospital gown, thinking he'd be up before dawn and dressed, ready to go, even though he needed one last dose of antibiotics this morning, if she hadn't known that she and Bozer were bringing his clothes. Which was a smart move on Jack's part. She was pretty certain that if Mac really wanted to escape he could figure something out, but lack of pants might slow him down a little bit.

"I know what you're thinking, hoss," Jack grumbles as the nurse removes the IV from Mac's arm.

"Sure right now it's just, please let me go home, I'll sleep better in my own bed. But once you get there you'll start saying that you're bored and thinking we'll all take pity on you. You'll flash those big blue eyes and no one will be able to deny you anything. Not with that big ugly scab across your head and that dumb hair cut reminding us that we almost lost you. And you think it's just going to be a hop, skip and a jump for you to get right back to... work. And I'm here to tell you right here and now that ain't going to happen."

Mac smiles innocently at Jack. "I still can't hear you," he says with a confused shake of his head.

"Oh, sure, right, you can't hear me, but you sure as hell know what I'm saying," Jack says, nodding at his partner.

Mac shrugs, almost apologetically. "Sorry, Jack." But the corners of his mouth twitch, egging Jack on.

"Yeah, well, if you think that you're going to win sympathy points and get access even to the lab in the next six weeks you're mistaken, bud."

Mac points at his ear and shakes his head.

"No fair using that to your advantage," Jack points a finger in Mac's face. "What, Jack? I can't hear you telling me to take a nap, so I'm going to tinker with homemade explosives in the kitchen."

"Bozer doesn't allow explosives in the kitchen," Mac smirks, raising his eyebrows.

Jack sputters. "I knew you knew what I was sayin'!" But he's smiling when he glances towards the doorway.

The day Mac can't read Jack's body language like a book is the day they retire. It's not a second later that Mac's following Jack's gaze and notices his friends.

"Did you bring my clothes?"

Riley holds up the bag in her hands, but must not hide the soft look on her face before Mac turned towards them because he rolls his eyes.

"I'm okay." He turns back towards Jack, daring him to disagree with his assessment of his health.

And Riley breathes a sigh of relief. Hearing Mac declare himself fine releases the last tendrils of anxiety that had rooted themselves along her spine.

The nurse stops Mac from immediately leaping from the bed. Bargaining to finish up her discharge teaching with four sets of ears. Three and a half, Jack corrects. Then while Mac dresses, she'll find an elusive wheelchair to give him a ride out. It's a longer walk than it looks, she explains, and Riley agrees with her.

As he's done for the last two days, Jack settles in on Mac's left, listening intently to the last minute instructions. Bozer runs down to the pharmacy to fill the prescriptions. Riley accepts a goody bag full of just-in-case antibiotic ointment, extra bandages and gauze for the ride home.

Mac eyes the wheelchair disdainfully, but doesn't argue as he climbs in. Not when he's this close to his freedom.

"Let's get out of here, Hawkeye," Jack says, pushing the wheelchair towards the door.

Riley smiles. There's been no shortage of nicknames the last few days, but Hawkeye has been, by far the favorite, his new haircut closely resembling Hawkeye's new 'do. She can't help but worry at the ideas it might spark though. All they need is Mac trying to take out bad guys with homemade exploding arrows.

 

* * *

 

Riley gloats.

"Come on, best two out of three," Bozer negotiates.

Mac frowns watching his friends rock-paper-scissors for the front seat. He's been restricted to the back bench seat, with orders to sleep on the drive home.

"It wouldn't matter," Riley says clambering into the front, reclining the seat and sticking her feet on the dash.

"Why not?"

"You've got a tell, Bozer," Jack says sliding into the driver's seat and adjusting his sunglasses.

"I have a tell?" Bozer's tone conveys his disbelief. "In rock-paper-scissors?"

"Yeah," Jack says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Do you believe this?" Bozer turns to look at Mac.

"You do have a tell, Bozer," Mac confirms climbing into the back of the SUV.

Bozer's eyes narrow. "You too, Mac? Did you all plan this? Plot against me while I was being a good friend and running down to the pharmacy?" He climbs into one of the middle bucketseats. "You mad that I didn't back you up when you wanted to sit in front?"

Mac shrugs as he stretches out in the back.

"Don't you play that 'I can't hear you' card with me now. It's funny when you want to use it to provoke Jack. You can't just use it whenever you want."

 

* * *

  
Mac heaves a long-suffering sigh and lays down on the couch.

They've been home a week and they're all still hovering. He scared them. He knows that. Jack, in particular. His partner moved into the guest room. He should stop calling it a guest room and refer to it as it really is, Jack's room. Mac's pretty sure he hasn't been out of Jack's sight for more than ten minutes at a time since they got home. He's pretty sure Jack sits outside the bathroom door when he showers, just in case.

His hands grip the edge of the couch. That one actually might not be the worst idea. He's still susceptible to dizziness with postural changes.

Jack sits on the coffee table next to him, waiting for him to ride out the wave of dizziness.

He keeps scaring them. He's still struggling with his balance. Not just dizziness, but spacial awareness, which he has to admit is disconcerting, as he clips a doorframe, or misjudges a step. He can feel how they stay just within arm's reach, ready to catch him if, when, he stumbles. He knows it's just because they care. Because they worry about him. Doesn't mean the lack of independence and privacy isn't getting to him. Just once he'd like to sleep through the night without the door cracking open to check on him.

He's exhausted too. The doctors tell him it's normal. He went through an ordeal. Their words, not his. It happened so fast. It doesn't feel real, and if it weren't for the lopsided haircut, the scab on his head, and his fatigue he could almost convince himself that it was a dream. A bad dream.

It's hard to reconcile the extent of the aftermath when the moment was over so quickly.

He's healing. His body is knitting together bone, weaving a tympanic membrane. He needs rest. He does rest. No one's used to him following that advice. They don't know what to do when he lays down on the couch for a mid-morning nap. Followed by an afternoon nap.

"Ready?" Jack asks. Mac gives a mostly affirmative grunt, which causes Jack to smile. His hearing is coming back. Slowly. They aren't accidentally sneaking up on him anymore.

Jack tenderly grasps Mac's ear, pulling it back and slightly up to straighten the ear canal and administer his ear drops.

The doctor was pleased with his progress at his follow up appointment yesterday, which had Jack beaming like a proud parent. No signs of infection. Hearing improving. Still neurologically intact.

"Five minutes," Jack reminds him to stay laying on his side, as if this hasn't been the routine three times a day for the last week. Mac barely refrains from an eyeroll.  

Jack pulls the throw from the back of the couch and drapes it over Mac's shoulders, then picks up the pad from the table, checking off the latest dose of meds, and Mac is overwhelmed.

It's not the first time Jack has stepped into a caregiver role. Far from it. But he slides into like it's his life's purpose.

Mac knows he's been grumpy, chafing under the constant supervision, irritated at his continued fatigue, frustrated with his weakness and dizziness. If he's honest, he's directed all of that towards his friends. And Jack ignores him, continues to make sure he's resting and eating and meds are on time.

He catches Jack's arm looking up into brown eyes. He's not good at this. Speaking his feelings. "I know I haven't been easy to live with this week."

Jack gives a quick laugh, starting to brush off Mac's comments with a joke.

"I don't want you to think I haven't noticed, or that I'm not grateful," Mac continues in a rush to get the words out.

"I think you've given me a little too much practice with this, hoss."

"You haven't left because I'm being bratty."

"Little too much practice with that one too," Jack teases, but turns serious. "I know it's just cause you're hurting."

"It's not fair that I take it out on you, when all you've done is... takecareofme," the last words come out in a slurred mumbled rush as a blush creeps up Mac's neck. He really doesn't do well with this level of vulnerability.

Jack grins at him, squeezing the hand that Mac's left on Jack's arm since the conversation started. "Someone has to make sure you're eating and not doing something stupid."

"It's more than that, you always know what I need. And the way you've made sure to stay on my left side..."

"I mean, if it had to happen, we can all be grateful that we at least get to quote a kickass superhero movie."

"Don't think I didn't notice that either, Bucky," Mac teases. Jack is positively gleeful to call out 'on your left' as often as possible. "I just wonder if you had known what you'd be getting yourself into back then--"

"Following that scrawny kid from California who doesn't know when to run away from a fight? I'm with him til the end of the line."

"I was trying to be serious," Mac says.

"I am serious," Jack replies. He takes a deep breath, sitting back down on the coffee table. "I don't know that there's been a second this week that I haven't thought about--" his voice breaks. He shakes his head and clears his throat. "Til the end of the line, kid. Whatever that is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anything looks familiar but you can't place it, I pilfered the "on your left" and "til the end of the line" from Captain America, and the rock-paper-scissors tell from Leverage (because in my head Bucky Barnes, Eliot Spencer and Jack Dalton are friends who take care of their smart but dumb friends)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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